#pareesa

[amanahmallofficial]

Experience the best quality fabric from our Pareesa Unstitched Collection 2019-20. To See More Visit Us https://amanahmall.com.pk/

[amanahmallofficial]

Mid Season Sale is almost over so we wanted to give our valued customers a SURPRISE before the sale ends! Additional discounts on your favourite Pareesa Unstitched and Kids Collection AND comforters? To See More Visit Us https://amanahmall.com.pk/

[rungsung17]

NEW WINTER COLLCETION...19! BRAND—PAREESA. FABRIC—TWILL. DUPTA—WOOL SHAWL. NECKLINE EMBROIDERY. TROUSER FULL EMBROIDED. #pareesa #twill #pakistanifashiononline #lahoregirls #pakistaniblog #desiblogger #instapakistan #pakistanibloggers #fashionblogger #fashionforever #pakistanistyle #pakistanitrends #pakistanifashion #pakistanibrands #pakistanifashion #lahorefasion #mariab #sanasafinaz #pakistanisuits #asianclothes #khaadi #frazmanan #sapphire #rungsung #rungsung17 #beautiful #instalike #designerwear #styleinspo https://www.instagram.com/p/B4nP63knd-Z/?igshid=1mks0bfmqpcmm

[amanahmallofficial]

Bring out the elegance in you with this stunning dress by Pareesa! Available now in-stores.

[amanahmallofficial]

Get your hands on these simple yet classic designs by Pareesa. Available now in-stores and Online

[weaajkal]

ننھی پریسا علاج کی منتظر #PTI #ImranKHan #Pareesa #Treatment پشاور میں پیدائشی طور پر گونگی اور بہری معصوم بچی علاج کے لیے مسیحا کی منتظر ہے۔ متاثرہ بچی کی والدہ نے وزیراعظم عمران خان سے اپیل کی ہے کہ گزشتہ دورِ حکومت میں شروع ہونے والے علاج کو رکھا جائے تاکہ ان کی بچی معمول کی زندگی گزارنے کے قابل ہوسکے۔ پشاور کی 3 سالہ بچی پریسا پیدائشی طور پر سننے اور بولنے کی صلاحیت سے محرو م ہے۔ پریسا کے والدین نے اپنے طور پر بچی کا علا ج کروا کر قوت سماعت اور گویائی بحال کرنے کی بھر پور کوشش کی۔ علاج مزید جاری رکھنے کے لیے 15 لاکھ روپے کی خطیر رقم جمع کرنا پریسا کے والدین کے لیے ناممکن تھا۔ متاثرہ بچی کی خبر سوشل میڈیا کے ذریعے سابقہ دور حکومت کے وزیراعظم میاں نواز شریف تک پہنچی تو بچی کا علاج معالجہ شروع کروا دیا گیا لیکن موجودہ دور حکومت میں بچی کے علاج کا سلسلہ رک گیا ہے۔ پریسا کے والد کا کہنا ہے کہ عمران خان کی حکومت میں بچی کے علا ج کا سلسلہ روک دیا گیا ہے۔ علاج پر 15 لاکھ روپے خرچ آتا ہے جو میں برداشت نہیں کرسکتا، میری عمرا ن خان سے اپیل ہے کہ وہ پریسا کا علاج جاری رکھنے کی ہدایت دیں۔ ان کا مزید کہنا تھا کہ میری بچی کا آپریشن ہوجائے گا اور اسے مشین لگ جائے تو یہ سن بھی سکے گی اور بول بھی سکے گی۔ دوسری جانب بچی کی ماں نے بھی وزیراعظم عمران خان سے اپیل ہے کہ میری بچی کا آپریشن ہو جائے اور میری بچی بول اور سُن سکے تو معمول کی زندگی گزار سکتی ہے۔

[socialinmag-blog]

#Pareesa winter collection shoot. Photography by @guddushani at #islamabad. #happeningnow #chenone #pareesa #clothing #pret #stitched #unstitched #readytowear #designer #designerwear #qualityfabrics #colours #fabric #bts #behindthescenes #chenonecollection #socialinmagblog Buzzed by @mosh_diaries Styled by @sunil_mua @mahenurhaider @zaraahmad @chenoneofficial

[fairerhousethanprose]

Habitation

The first night she’s back by his side, and they’re back together in their small home, he can’t sleep for the life of him. She’s in her bedroom, alone, and he is in the library/office, on the small pull-out couch. His leg aches, and he lies in the darkness, close enough to her flowers on the terrace that the perfume makes its way into his lonely sleepless vigil, like her caress.

He always knew, maybe even before he saw her all grown up, and curled inward with deeply-held sorrow, that he loved her. His music, his love of flowers, his troubled relationship to his faith and to his faithfully observant father - everything was tied to the infrequent playmate of his childhood, his fairy-princess that he idealized and romanticized and loved as one loves unattainable things.

The reality of her - the extent of the damage that had turned the laughing, mischievous girl he remembered into the recluse before him, had been difficult to accept. After the disbelieving euphoria that she chose him - him!, he didn’t know what to make of her withdrawn quietness, her trembling, traumatized response to any overture of physical closeness. And then she told him, and his heart twisted on itself at her pain, before the rage that someone had dared to lay hands on her, took place of the sorrow. And then, the rage was subsumed by the immense wave of tenderness and pity - he hadn’t known himself capable of so much emotion, the way his chest felt as if there was a gaping wound where his heart should have been - his heart that now resided outside his body, with her.

He still can’t bear to think of what came after. And yet, even when the horror of her truth tore his family apart, his heroic, pious Abba unmasked as the monster he hadn’t even dreamt of in his nightmares - when the horror and rage and disgust threatened to swamp him and he was so so angry with her he couldn’t breathe - it should have taken his love and tenderness too, but life was rarely that straightforward. Even then, he could breathe only when she was near him - this girl who had suffered the demolition of her childhood at the hands of his Abba, and chose to love the monster’s son. Why? Why him? He had asked her once, his anguish making him cruel, even when her eyes overflowed with tears, when he could see how he was hurting her. She said, helpless, “I don’t know - I don’t know. It was refuge I sought with you.” He knew in that instance that he would never be free of her - he could travel 10000 miles, and her shadow would still be cast on his heart.

And now, in this elegant house where Pareesa and he play at marriage, he wonders if this is what he will feel the rest of his life - the jagged wound of his father’s loss, unsanctified by mourning, and his helpless, hopeless love for her, the flower that survived even the hail-storm of their circumstances. The darkness is stifling, and he painfully levers himself out of bed, limps his way to the terrace. There are stars out in the sky, inasmuch as is visible through Karachi’s smog, and a light breeze brings the perfume of jasmine and tuberoses to him. He tries to think of what he needs to do - he needs to take Paree to his mother and Sumbul in the morning. He needs to sit down with her father and figure out if he is going back to his position as financial manager in his father-in-law’s company. He wants to marry her again - quietly, this time, maybe only her and him and the officiant, promising themselves to each other without the lies and sorrows and secrets. He wants her to heal. He wants her.

He feels himself trembling - delayed shock. He had wanted so much for her to come back to him, and yet, had not believed that it was possible. As always, the reality of her was so much more than his imagination of her presence - just to hear her breathe, her footsteps echoing on the steps as he worked in the kitchen, her off-key singing in the garden - was a balm on his heart, and for the moment that was enough, if he willed himself not to think of anything but her.

He feels more than he hears her approach him, so light and quiet on her feet, and stays still. In the quiet darkness, only the two of them in the house, the moment feels intimate and fragile, dangerous. She leans into him, her forehead between his shoulder-blades, the second time she has touched him voluntarily. Her light breaths raise goose-pimples on his arms. “Armaan”, she says, and oh. No one calls his name like she does, a promise and fulfillment, love and sorrow and finding something infinitely precious that had been lost and mourned and missed. “Armaan, I am afraid”, her voice hushed. He turns to her, and now, her head rests on his chest, over his heart, as she hides herself, the tension evident in her bow-string taut body, her white-clenched knuckles. He dares to lift his hand to her wild mess of curls, feeling that same wave of tenderness expand within him - “Why?”, he asks, quietly, almost shocked at the affection in his own voice. “Will you ever forgive me?” she asks muffled, tears soaking his shirt, and all his rage drains away from him, his hurt and pain and feelings of worthlessness, even if only for the moment. Her fingers are clenched in his shirt, holding so tight he can feel the fabric give. She is so afraid of his answer, he realizes, terrified of the possibility of losing him - and he feels laughter blooming suddenly. He won’t ever be able to leave her - the past will sometimes threaten to drown him, and drown her as well, but he will always find his way back to her, and she to him. He kisses her forehead, the first caress he bestows on his wife, and says, “Kabka maaf kar diya!” - “I have forgiven you a forever ago.” She raises her tear-stained face to him, and kisses his lips, a short, chaste press, and he tastes the salt. This is her forgiving him. He hold her in his arms, and she shakes against him, in the darkness.

They will heal and survive, and see the sun rise.

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“Marriage is not a house or even a tent it is before that, and colder: the edge of the forest, the edge of the desert                    the unpainted stairs at the back where we squat outside, eating popcorn the edge of the receding glacier where painfully and with wonder at having survived even this far we are learning to make fire” - Margaret Atwood.